by Kristen Lamb
Heather’s truck raced up the drive and I swear she was out of the cab before the truck fully stopped. “What in flaming hell is going on here?”
My father jabbed a palsied finger my direction. “This woman stole my fan and my stepstool. She’s off to jail. Caught her red-handed with my property. Take her away, Officer.”
“That woman’s your daughter.” She whirled to Meyerson. “Uncuff her. She didn’t steal anything. I loaned those to her so she could clean out the trailer.”
“Without my permission?” my father roared.
She shot back, “My name’s on this trailer, not yours, so Romi can take any damn thing she pleases.” She pointed to the door. “Now get yer knobby ass inside and do your breathing treatment or so help me I will smoke all your Marlboros myself.”
“I’m yer father. You can’t treat me that way.” He puffed up, but it really just looked pathetic.
“You’re right,” Heather said. “You don’t have to live with me, I can stuff yer ungrateful ass in a nursing home and be rid of you. Do both of us a favor.”
“That ain’t right, threatenin’ me that way.”
“Hey, yer the crazy coot who don’t even recognize his own daughter.” She planted her hands on her hips and narrowed her eyes. “Maybe yer losin’ yer marbles. I ain’t equipped to take care of someone with Alzheimer’s.”
“I ain’t got no Old-Timer’s,” he grumbled like a kid. “I know it’s Romi. Hell, she looks just like her mama.” His voice trembled a little. “How could I not know her?” he said, his voice far quieter and soaked in sadness. My father wilted before my eyes and, shoulders slumped, he shambled up the steps, but not before yelling, “I want Taco Bell.” With that, he slammed the door.
Heather bolted up the steps toward me. “You can un-cuff her. No crime in borrowing from family.”
I could feel the slow burn below Meyerson’s composure. Wordlessly, he unlocked the cuffs, and feeling rushed back into my hands. Fresh blood had run out of the cut, but the seal was mostly intact. I rubbed my sore wrists as Meyerson returned to his cruiser and backed out.
Heather gave Sawyer a grateful smile. “Damn glad you called when you did. Was about to take a double-shift.” She stroked my arm. “And I couldn’t have posted bail. Nana tapped me out yesterday.”
“I understand,” I said.
Heather spotted the blood streaming down my hand. “What happened to your hand? Did Meyerso—?”
“No. Broke a coffee cup. It’s nothing.”
“This a regular thing?” Sawyer asked, gesturing to the door where my father had disappeared through a cloud of smoke and curses.
We both nodded.
“Was he going on about Shadow People?” Heather asked, her face tight.
“Yes,” I said.
She rubbed the space between her eyes. “Was afraid you’d say that.”
“Is he losing his mind?” Sawyer asked.
“More and more every day. Sits in his bedroom with night-vision and watches his piles.” She sighed. “As if anyone would want any of this crap.”
“Where’s Nana?” I asked.
“At Charlie’s.” She grimaced.
I held up my uninjured hand. “Enough information.”
“More than I’d like, but Charlie can babysit her for a while so I can get some sleep.” Heather gave me a hug. “Sorry about Daddy. And take this for your hand,” she said and dropped something in my pocket.
“Wha—?”
“Tylenol,” she said. “Every housekeeper’s best friend.”
“Thanks. I’d have been screwed if you hadn’t showed up.” Heather’s face told me I made a poor choice in words. I wondered how long Meyerson had been victimizing my sister and those like her. And if Meyerson was the dog, who held the leash?
“Yeah,” she said and gave a wan smile. “Happy to help. I need to, uh, get a shower and some Zs. Working the nightshift’s not the easiest.” She let out a tired laugh. “But I talked to my boss and he said you can start work with me early as Monday. Give you time to get settled and all. I’ll bring you a uniform so you can be fancy, too.” She curtseyed in the French styled housekeeper outfit, the classy kind. For the first time, I’d calmed down enough to see she wore makeup and her golden blonde hair in a twist. She was a beauty and the traditional maid’s uniform was elegant on her, though Heather could make a potato sack look vogue.
Sawyer didn’t seem to notice her, which was strange. Growing up, most guys ignored me the moment Heather entered the scene. I was surprised I wasn’t mopping up drool. He merely stood there silent as stone, taking everything in.
“What about the applications, forms, W-2s?” I asked.
“We’ll get to the resort early and you can tend all that. You’ll need some good shoes, though. It’s a long night, longer with sore feet.” She reached for Sawyer’s hand to shake in the seductive way she used on all men. “Nice to meet you, Mr.…”
“Call me Sawyer,” he said politely.
“Wish we could have met under more ideal circumstances.” She pressed a hand to her chest and fluttered her long lashes in a way I could never pull off. “Bye, y’all.” She waved and headed toward home.
I noted her hips had more than a tad of extra sway. I thought about how she’d acted toward Sawyer. It amazed me how Heather could shift from sounding like a bouncer at I-Hop one minute to coming off like a misplaced debutante the next. I was grateful she’d stayed to take care of the family but with her beauty and skills, she could have easily been a billionaire’s trophy wife. She was a better person than me.
I could hear Little Hoss’s voice blaring from the front window. A moment later, I heard the TV turn off, then eerie silence.
A long minute passed, then Sawyer asked, “He still alive?”
“Sure. She needs to go to sleep so she probably threatened to trade his Bonanza DVDs for Barbara Streisand movies.”
“A tad cruel.” He made a face. “Is your sister always so, uh…?”
“Flirty? Yes. That’s my sister.” I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. “Every boy that ever glanced my way forgot me the second Heather showed up. Or they asked me out to get to her.” I let out a sarcastic laugh.
“That had to have been hard,” he said.
I couldn’t meet his stare. “Guess I spared her from Phil. He’d have dumped me like a penny stock if he’d ever met her.” They always did. Everyone except Cotton, but I’d figure that out later.
I headed inside out of the heat and Sawyer followed. I knew if he hadn’t been here my little home would have been a scene out of the Sopranos. I didn’t know why I felt that way, but I did. Meyerson wasn’t searching for a fan and stepstool. My gut said that JC and I weren’t the only ones who knew what the boys uncovered at the construction site.
“Why didn’t you just show him your badge? Tell him you were FBI.”
“Cops are far more afraid of lawyers.” He winked.
Sawyer closed the door then asked the question I knew was coming. “What’s in the bag?”
I rinsed the blood off my hand and pondered my words. “Family mementos. Photos and stuff.” Even though I was technically telling the truth, I still felt guilty for withholding.
“You seemed awfully shook up over keepsakes.”
I tore off a wad of fresh paper towels and filled them with ice for my hand then flopped on the sofa. “You don’t understand. My mom left us when I was thirteen.” I inspected the wound. It was coagulating all right. My headache had mostly dissipated but I still felt queasy. “My dad burned every picture, erased every shred of evidence my mother had been in our lives. If Meyerson had gotten that bag and Daddy found out, he’d have destroyed all I have left of her.”
“Mementos,” he said crossing his arms, his stare penetrating me that way I’d seen sitting in the small interrogation rooms at the FBI office in Dallas.
“Fine.” I walked into the kitchen and pointed. “Since I no longer have my stolen stepstool, would you be s
o kind? I don’t trust standing on a barstool right now.”
Sawyer grabbed the bag and handed it to me. I spread the contents on the counter, though I’d sealed the dirt-crusted necklace and the purse in separate plastic Zip-Lock bags. If I ever could get my mom’s disappearance investigated, I knew there could be DNA embedded somewhere. Using my good hand, I spread out the photos and gingerly opened the old purse, showing him it was empty. Then I sealed it away in the Zip-Lock.
“This is all you have left?” he asked.
I let out a heavy breath. “Yes.”
Sawyer studied the photos as if memorizing each detail. “Your mom was beautiful. You two could be twins.”
“Heather favors her more. Prettier.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” he said matter-of-factly.
The comment made my cheeks flush, so I busied myself cleaning away the blood and chunks of glue on my palm then resealed the cut with another line of superglue and wrapped my hand in gauze to give some extra protection.
His forehead wrinkled as he lifted each picture from the stack.
“Got those yesterday,” I said. “Some friends of mine brought this stuff to me. Extras from their store.” I swept my hand around the trailer. “And also the photos.”
“I see.”
I picked up one of the faded pictures and stared at it. “Until last night I couldn’t have picked my mom out of a line-up. Had been so long since she left.”
“No offense, but if I were married to your dad, I’d have left, too.”
“None taken. That’s what everyone believed. Even Heather and me.” I dropped the photo back on the pile.
“Believed?”
I didn’t bite. Wasn’t going to have this conversation. Not now. I said nothing.
“Why didn’t she take you and your sister?”
“That’s a question we’ve been asking ourselves for years.” I put away my First Aid supplies and returned the kit to its place beneath the sink.
“Sorry. That was…unkind. I apologize.” He started to stack the photos then stopped.
“What?” I asked, but Sawyer had zeroed in on a face, and I had a sneaking suspicion I knew which one it was. I felt my pulse quicken and braced for some serious explaining. “What?”
“Nothing,” he said and tucked the photo in the pile. “Your mom was beautiful,” he repeated and neatly stacked the photos. I knew he wasn’t telling me something, but I didn’t have the energy to press.
“What are you doing tonight?” he asked as he gently returned my keepsakes back into the Piggle Wiggle bag.
“Going to Tiffany’s. Thought I’d shop for some new earrings.” I gave my most glamorous pose, knowing I was a sad bloodied mess.
“The mean reds?” he asked and a slight smile tugged at the left corner of his mouth.
“You have no idea.” I poured myself another glass of water to help ease the small throbbing in my head. “Wouldn’t think a guy or FBI agent would get that reference.”
“Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Standard agent training.”
“Good training.” I gulped down the water trying to reconstitute my raisin brain.
“Good movie, and happened to be my mom’s favorite. What are you doing tonight?”
“Why do you care? Hauling me off for questioning?”
“Yes.”
“Excuse—?”
“Yes, I want to ask you some questions. There are some nice restaurants in town.”
“And?” I said warily.
“Sick of eating alone. Do a lot of it in this job.”
“Do you frequently ask suspects out to dinner?”
Still no expression. All business. “I have a lot of questions I still need to ask you, and we can talk here, or eat out, or I can haul you off to a local office and they can question you. Your choice.”
“Who am I to turn down free food and a date with an FBI agent?” I batted my eyelashes in a cartoonish fashion.
“You’re not my date,” he said, his tone and expression never changing.
“I see. Not your type.”
“Never said that. Just said you’re not my date.”
Taken aback, I said, “Good to know. Changes how I might dress. Might go like this.” I lifted a leg, modeling my PJs.
He ignored my teasing. “Take care of the hand. I’ll come get you at seven. No standing me up or I’ll put out an APB.”
It was the first hint of humor he’d offered and I liked it. Liked he was human and that maybe he was even my friend.
“I’ll be here,” I said. “Day spa was booked.” I walked him to the door. He slipped on his sunglasses and it seemed as if he were going to say something more, but then simply said, “See you at seven.”
I watched his Suburban until it was gone, and I didn’t know what to think or who to trust. Something about Sawyer tugged at me. I couldn’t read him and that was unusual. That’s what had made me good at sales. Everyone had tells. Everyone but Phil and Sawyer. Phil hid behind charm and Sawyer behind a wall. Maybe I was into puzzles, because as much as I hated to admit it, I was disappointed Sawyer was gone.
I thought about my sack of evidence still here, thanks to Sawyer. These items weren’t safe in my house. If someone was searching for these things, it meant they either killed my mom or could be covering for whoever did. I didn’t for one moment believe Meyerson’s BS story, but who was pulling his strings? Meyerson didn’t have any brains unless you counted the ones in his ass. Someone was using him to do their dirty work. The question was, Who?
I decided my first priority, aside from a shower, was to figure out a better hiding place. JC said two couldn’t keep a secret and now there were three. Three people who knew about the handbag and necklace, and I didn’t like that at all.
Three can keep a secret if two are dead.
I found one of the small cardboard boxes Kim used to bring in the glassware, and emptied the Piggle Wiggle bag of my treasures, though I kept the picture of my parents with the man who looked like Ed Metzger. A thought struck me as I started to put my mother’s old purse into the box. I eased it out of the plastic and searched inside. I felt around the lining until my fingers found what I was hunting for. Mom’s secret compartment. I dug my fingers in the lining of the purse until I felt something.
Paper.
I teased the paper out of the lining. It was brittle with age and tried to fall apart in my fingers as I unfolded it. I studied the drawing, but it didn’t make any sense. There were no words, only a circle with four letters ERWW and some lines connecting to squares and triangles and more lines. The drawing reminded me of a circuit diagram. I found my cell phone and took a picture of it just in case. I needed to get it printed so I could study it in more detail. I placed the paper in its own baggie and returned it to the hidden compartment in the purse. I had no idea what the image was, but it had been important enough for my mother to hide it, or die trying.
Chapter Eight
Kim arrived at 11:30 and her delivery guys brought in the futon and bedding. She had to get back to the store and I was grateful she hadn’t come earlier to witness the freak show. Her men set up the bed and a cute nightstand and a small dresser. Kim was apparently redecorating the guest room and handing the old items down to me. She was even thoughtful enough to bring me several fans for the house and a nice wicker chair for the living room.
Lord, that girl deserved a medal for awesome.
I didn’t protest. Kim was in and out like a whirlwind, and then all was quiet. I took a long hot shower. The glue hadn’t done the trick so I used all the hot water I had soaking out my hasty patch-job. I wrapped my hand, still oozing blood, in a clean towel with ice, then returned to my handy First-Aid Kit and shuffled through the sterile pads until I found a suture kit. My mom had given me a gift of knowing how to sew. My father had given me a high tolerance for pain and an appreciation for the many uses for Ora-Gel. Twelve precise tiny stitches and a double square knot later, I hoped the wound was closed for good. I ran Bactine o
ver it again for good measure then wrapped my palm in gauze.
I donned clean pajamas and took the two big white pills Heather had given me, then snuggled into the futon’s lush goose-down bedding and willed myself to relax. I felt like crap and needed sleep. Just an hour. I had too much to do to sleep all day. The cut still throbbed and my wrists ached so badly I swore the handcuffs had bruised me down to the bones. I already had pale green stripes that would eventually turn dark. In any other town, I could complain or call Internal Affairs, but something deep down told me to be quiet. Yes, I’d been wronged, but I had a choice—win the battle or win the war. And, though the first salvo had yet to be fired, I braced for what I knew was ahead. Yes, I had the mean reds.
I was afraid, and worse, I didn’t know who or what to be afraid of.
A pounding noise dragged me out of the warm blackness and I not only heard the pounding grow louder, but I suddenly became aware of the annoying chirp of my cell phone alarm. When I checked the time, I gasped. 7:05. Heather said she’d given me Tylenol, but I had a strong suspicion she’d failed to mention the three at the end. I didn’t know whether to be seriously pissed or infinitely grateful, but I figured she probably didn’t want to shout out she was handing me codeine in front of a stranger who looked like a G-Man. I’d slept great, had no pain, and barely any cares. The pounding noise started again, and I practically tripped over the covers trying to make it to the front door, only this time I took a second to check who it was.